Hope
by gilmorefanforever
Summary: April's blood stains the bathtub. Oneshot.


Hope

April's blood stains the bathtub.

Your brain refuses to accept this image. When you arrived home, hours earlier than expected—band practice had been cut short when the drummer walked in absolutely smashed—her jacket was slung over a chair haphazardly, just as it always was when she wasn't wearing it. A small strip of light shone through the bottom of the closed bathroom door, so you settled in with your guitar to wait for her to come out.

She didn't.

Not five minutes later, or ten, or fifteen. There wasn't water running, she wasn't in the shower. You rolled your eyes, wondering why the hell girls always seemed to take forever in the bathroom.

At thirty minutes, you began to worry.

"April?" you asked, knocking once on the door. "April, are you alright?"

In response to silence, several thoughts coursed through your mind, the main one being _oh God, is she pregnant?_ She was pregnant, and she was in that bathroom sick, wasn't she?

You knocked more urgently. "April, come on, talk to me!"

If she was pregnant… wouldn't you hear _something_, though?

"If you don't answer me or open the door, I'm coming in."

You waited to the count of ten to open the door. On what would be eleven, the world stopped.

She's not moving. Her chest isn't rising or falling, and you're sure that if you could bring yourself to move towards her and check, you wouldn't find a heartbeat. You're not really sure of anything at this moment except for that, really.

She's dead.

After a moment, you finally get enough control of his body to take a few steps forward, only to lose it and topple over, your hand landing on the sink for support. Instead of the smooth surface of the sink, you feel a piece of paper.

It had been into thirds to fit into an envelope at some point, but now it's taken up by a short note, written in largely and in purple. April always liked purple.

_Roger,_

_We've got AIDS._

_April. _

You don't really process the words, just think about how that is so typical of her. No goodbyes, no apologies, no "I love you"s. You think you deserve more than those three words. More than this.

There's blood. So much blood…

You close your eyes, unable to look anymore, and sink to the floor.  
-

You don't hear Mark when he comes in. In fact, you have no idea Mark's there until he's walking up behind you saying, "I can't believe you two are both home and the loft is silent. That has to be a f—"

He stops. You're not looking at him, but you know why.

"Oh my God." You can feel Mark's eyes on you. "Roger, what the hell happened? Oh my God…"

You don't answer. Mark continues to repeat himself. "Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God…" You want him to just stop talking, stop saying anything.

"She…" Mark trails off. "How could she? _Why_ would she?"

You don't know. You don't want to.

No, you tell yourself. You do know.

You still don't want to.

Still unwilling to talk, you slide the note over a few inches, drawing Mark's attention to it. Large purple letters are easy enough to read from far away, you figure. You watch as your best friend takes in the news, his eyes widening. He looks like he'll be saying another "Oh my God."

Instead, Mark turns on his heel and walks out of the bathroom and picks up the phone to dial 9-1-1. The note lies there, with your fingers still on the edge.

_We've got AIDS. We've got AIDS. We've got AIDS. _

That's when it finally hits you.

_We've got AIDS. We've got AIDS. We've got AIDS. _

Your eyes drift from the note, to the track marks on your arms, to the dead girl in the bathtub.

You think "aids" is a pretty fucking ironic name for the disease that's going to kill you.  
-

Somehow you make it to the couch, where you sit, feeling numb, as paramedics burst into the loft. Mark murmurs something to one of them, probably about her HIV. You watch without seeing as they remove her body in a bag.

Maureen arrives soon after they leave. She's loud and annoying, but at least she's acting normally until Mark pulls her aside and tells her what happened. She rushes to your side, placing her hand on your shoulder.

"Are… are you okay?" This only makes you feel worse. You don't want pity.

You shrug off her hand and stare ahead, your eyes glued to the chair where her coat still hangs.  
-

You eventually got up and retrieved the note from its place on the bathroom floor, keeping your eyes glued to the tiles. It now sits on the couch next to the guitar you can't bring yourself to pick up again, both objects mocking you. You tossed it there after glancing at the back and finding her HIV results.

Positive?

Saying something had positive results should be a good thing. The baseball team practiced and worked hard and the positive result was that they won the World Series. The musician played a great set and the positive result was that the agent in the audience wanted to sign him. _Not_ the young couple were idiots who did drugs so they got HIV.

You tap your hand against your leg. The room is starting to spin, and your muscles are clenching. You need a damn hit, and need one soon. This is too much to take sober.

You begin to stand, but quickly returns to your position on the couch. Heroin is what got you into this mess. You can't…

_You need to_.

It takes every ounce of your self control to stay on the couch, with your fingers digging into the cushion like you'll fly away if you let go.

You and April knew this kind of thing could happen when you started. Blood gets on needles, diseases get shared through blood, therefore using someone else's needle could get you a disease. But you never, not for a second, considered it could happen to you.

You should have.

You wonder how it happened. Did you both get it through the same needle, at almost the same time? Did she get it then give it to you? Did you give it to her?

_Did you give it to her_?

The thought hits so hard that you have to grip the cushion more tightly to keep from falling over.

You have to stop.  
-

You hate yourself. Now that your head, for the first time in a week, isn't throbbing in agony, you loathe yourself more than you've hated anything in your entire life.

You don't even attempt to hide the needle. It sits out in plain view when Mark comes home, and the look of pure disappointment is almost enough punishment, in your opinion.

"I can't do this," you choke out. You plead silently with your friend, still unable to go as far as to ask for what you need. Mark stays quiet for a minute, but he gets it.

"Yes you can." He picks up the syringe with obvious distaste. "And you're going to." And all at once, you're overwhelmingly thankful you have Mark.

You need help.  
-

Mark's asleep on couch. He thinks you are, too, which is exactly what you wanted. Tiptoeing towards the door, you give Mark one more look and smile when your roommate is still unconscious.

Last week, you would have felt guilty. This week, you need smack too badly to care.

Your body tingles in anticipation as you reach the door. Just a few more minutes, you tell yourself. A few more minutes and everything will be better, and you won't ache or want to jump out the window or strangle Mark. Just a few more minutes.

Just as your fingers close around the door knob, a loud beeping noise protrudes the air.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit," you whisper, running your hands around your waist to find the small box that is The Bane of Your Existence. You close your eyes and pray that the noise won't wake up Mark, ruining this one chance.

Of course, if you were a lucky man, you wouldn't be in this situation at all.

"Roger, is that your beeper?" Mark mumbles, still half asleep.

You wince. "Yes, it is."

"Take your—"

"I know what the beeper means, Mother. Thanks."

Mark looks like he's drifted back to sleep, and you stand still, wondering whether you should take your AZT before sneaking out. Skipping one dose won't kill you, you reason. And what if Mark wakes up again?

You reach towards the doorknob again and have the door halfway opened before you're interrupted.

"Where the hell are you going?"

_Fuck_.

"I thought you were asleep," you blurt out, not bothering to think before speaking. Mark's eyes widen and he jumps off the couch. You consider making a run for it, but quickly realize you have no chance now.

"I can't even _sleep_, now?" he asks.

"I don't need a babysitter, Mark!" You snap.

"Apparently you do." Mark pushes the door closed. "Empty out your pockets."

"You have to be fucking kidding me." You dig your hands into your pockets anyway, already caught, and pull out a stack of money and a hypodermic needle.

"The _rent_ money, Roger? Really? And where the hell did you get that?"

The needle had been hidden in your sock drawer for months. It really was a miracle that Mark hadn't known about it before, considering how controlling he had been since you had slipped the first time.

"Are there more?" Mark demands.

"No." That was why this had been your last shot.

"Right."

"There _aren't_."

Mark shakes his head and breaks the needle in half, and, as pathetic as it is, you feel like you're breaking in half too. Mark holds up the needle like a challenge.

"You were doing so well."

No, you weren't. But you don't even have the will to fight back anymore.

You mutter "fuck" one more time and sit down, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to focus on something other than the excruciating need.  
-

The last time you guitar sounded this terrible was when you were fifteen and had just started playing. You turn a knob and strum the string again; producing the most out of tune thing  
you've ever heard in your life.

It has been 185 days since you have touched heroin. It's been just as long since you've left the house, or had contact with anyone other than Mark, Collins or Maureen. But you're attempting to stay positive.

It's Christmas Eve. That's a good thing, apparently. You celebrated by sleeping in late then treating yourself to a festively stale bowl of cereal. You had no idea where Mark was—probably out somewhere actually attempting to have a life, you assumed.

You sat on the balcony for awhile, freezing your ass off and staring down onto the street. You've never been a very big fan of Christmas—April was, though. She loved "the lights, the mood, the songs… Everything!" she insisted. You always felt terrible when you didn't have enough money to buy her a nice gift. April insisted that it didn't matter, that the present giving part of Christmas wasn't important, but she must have been a little bit disappointed.

This year, her absence is obvious. The loft looks no different than it did on Thanksgiving or Halloween or the other national holidays that went completely ignored. You had been in too much pain to care and Mark had been too tired. You felt like he had to do _something_ to commemorate the first holiday in a year you'd been awake or lucid enough to celebrate. So you decided to pick up the instrument that used to practically be your best friend for the first time in a year.

Apparently guitar playing is not like riding a bike. Even though you remember how to play, know where to press and how to strum, it feels awkward. You hit a strange note that the string you're strumming shouldn't be producing and wonder how the hell this thing got so out of tune. Have you and Mark been bumping into it for the past year?

Biting your lip, you turn the tuning knob again. It does very little to help, and you're just about ready to set the guitar down when Mark enters the loft, pulling his scarf off and crossing his arms because, as usual, it's just as fucking cold inside as it is out. He notices you and gives a small wave. "Merry Christmas."

"Mmhmm," you mutter, strumming a string that finally almost sounds like an E. "You, too."

Mark takes a few more steps inside before he decides to don his scarf again. Then he sets down his camera and collapses on the couch next to you. "My films suck."

"Yes, they do."

"Wow, the Christmas season really brings out the best in people…"

"How is lying any better?" Success. That's actually the right note.

Mark sighs and leans his head back against the couch cushions. "It's not, I guess." His eyes pop open. "I'll make a documentary."

Now for A. "About what?"

Mark scoffs as if this is a stupid question, and then hesitates because he has no idea how to answer it. You snicker, and he glares at you. "My life, I guess. All the shit that happens to me."

"So… nothing?"

"Shut up."

"No, no, I think it's a great idea. Really. You can call it 'Mark Cohen: A Jew in Love with a Lesbian.' It'll break box office records."

Mark grabs his camera and begins to fiddle with it, and you sigh, knowing Maureen is still a touchy subject. "You know, it's not as funny as you act like it is, Roger."

"You're right." A is being even more stubborn than the last string was. "It's about ten times funnier than I act like it is, but I'm trying not to hurt your sensitive feelings."

"We were together for _four years_. That doesn't just suddenly go away. I—"

"If you think about it, you were really only together two years. I mean, at least half of your time as a 'couple' was you being pissed at her. Do you remember why?" Mark doesn't answer, so you tap your guitar for emphasis and say, "Because she is a lying, manipulative whore."

"She's really not—"

"Yes, she is. You know she is, and you should be glad that she dumped you, because it means you don't have to deal with her shit anymore." You chuckle. "Joanne does."

Mark glances off contemplatively. "I think I'll talk to her after her performance tonight and—"

"You do that," you cut him off, "and I will personally kick your ass. This is a good thing."

With a smile, Mark says, "You know, you'll have no idea whether or not I talk to her unless you come with me to the show. You have to get out, Rog."

He's been at this for weeks. It's getting on your nerves. "You think the idea of seeing _Maureen_ will make me want to leave the loft?"

"You're being a dick today."

"I'm a dick every day," you say, grinning. "It's your fault for being friends with me." Neither of you speak for a moment, and you figure you've gone too far. "I think a documentary is a great idea, Mark," you lie, "as long as I'm not in it."

"Oh, you'll be in it, just because you're being such a douche. First shot." He grins at you and holds up his camera.

You give Mark a lovely view of your middle finger and resume tuning your guitar.  
-

_Knock knock_ _knock_.

You're convinced Mark thinks you're ten years old and can't be trusted alone. It's ridiculous. And why is he so fucking persistent? You don't want to see Maureen's show. You don't want to go out to dinner afterwards. You don't want to go wherever the hell Mark wants you to now. All you want is to sit on your ass and write a song.

In the past few hours, you've decided that's your goal. One song before you drop dead. It shouldn't be that hard—you used to write songs all the time. However, you've been stuck on variations of the same melody for the past three hours. When Mark overheard it, he frowned and asked when you got into to opera. Fantastic. You're dying _and_ unoriginal.

Mark's probably going to pretend he forgot something that there's no way he needs. He's done that a couple times, and both of you know it hasn't fooled you once. You consider giving him some snide remark like "What do you need, Mommy?" but instead play along. It is Christmas, after all.

"What'd you forget?" You open the door with a roll of your eyes.

But that's… not Mark.

"Got a light?" a girl who looks strangely familiar asks. You're taken aback and practically step aside and invite her into your apartment. Or she seems to assume you do because she steps in. You don't realize it until she calls you out on it, but you're staring at her pretty intently, watching the way her hair shines in the moonlight. Embarrassed, you dig in your pocket for a match and light the candle she's holding out. You know her from somewhere…

And then she smiles, and your heart stops. It's the same smile April used to give you, practically glowing with youth and life. You push the thought from your head before it starts to hurt too much, choosing to focus on the living girl who's currently inside your apartment.

You assume she doesn't know you're looking when she blows out the candle and innocently tells you that it went out. It's cute—she's cute, you decide. You grab another match and relight her candle, pretending you have no idea what she's doing.

It's when she not-so-subtly brushes her knee up your thigh that you're positive this girl is trying to seduce you. You nervously point her back to the door, practically pushing her out.

Part of you hopes she'll come back. You wait a few moments, not even trying to talk yourself out of this irrational desire.

_Knock knock knock_.

"It blew out again?" you ask her playfully as she walks back in. You expect an equally playful reply, but she instead she nervously pushes past you, looking for her stash. It takes a few seconds for your brain to understand what that means, but when it does, panic rushes through you. You look at the girl in an entirely new light, and once again you think of April. Your mind is suddenly spinning at the thought of heroin _in your loft_ and you open your mouth to ask this girl to leave.

But you're distracted by the sight of her on all fours on the ground. You know this is wrong, wrong, wrong, but you ignore your brain again and join her. You don't want her find her smack, you decide. You like her, which means you have to find it first.

On the floor, you resume your wondering about where you've seen her. She answers… The Catscratch Club—you vaguely remember going there with Mark shortly after moving to the city and now that she mentions it, you remember a girl with wild curly hair…

And handcuffs. You flush and decide to tease her instead of letting your mind go down that path. It _can't_ go down that path. She smiles at you again, and you can't help but think that she's way too young for all of this shit. Again, the feeling flares up inside you that you _can't_ let her walk out with her heroin, and that you want her to stop shooting up immediately. It's insane, considering tonight is the first time you've ever spoken to her, but you can't help it. You try to talk her out of it, attempting to sound wise and like you understand exactly what she's feeling. And you do, so much that it scares you.

Then you see it. You dive for it, stupidly announcing your discovery, and she looks up excitedly. _Shit_. "It's a… candy bar wrapper," you lie, and not very convincingly, as you shove the small bag into your back pocket. You beat yourself up over it in your mind, because you can tell by her face that she doesn't buy it for a second.

"We could light the candle," she suggests, holding up her still clearly burning candle. You feel chills at the innuendo that has suddenly slipped into her voice, and try to refuse by doing the exact opposite of what she asks. You blow the candle out and hop around her, but she holds up her candle in mock offense. "Oh, what'd you do with my candle?"

"That was my last match." Another lie. You shouldn't do this… you'd be fooling yourself if you kept letting this girl, no matter how beautiful she is, stay. If you had met her before you were diagnosed, before April, you know things would be different. But not now. Now you have to ignore the way the moon silhouettes her in the dark and the way her eyes shine.

Despite that, your nerves roar with delight when she reaches over and takes your hand and asks you to dance with her, barely giving you a chance to answer before pulling you to your feet. She's making you feel more alive than you have in months, and you can ignore the wrongness for just a moment. Just a few seconds of not feeling that the world is collapsing in on you.

"I'm Roger," you offer.

Her arms slip around you and you let your eyes drift close as she murmurs, "They call me Mimi." It suits her, you think as you slowly sway with her. Her small hand slips into your pocket and you realize why too late. You open your eyes to the sight of her dangling her stash in your face and her retreating body and you can do nothing but watch.

You failed, and you feel a little guilty, even if you can't figure out why. You doubt you'll ever see Mimi again. But it's the strangest thing.

You think, just for a second, that everything might turn out okay.


End file.
